Legend of the Swords: War

by Jason Derleth

  After a fitful night’s sleep, once again they rose before dawn. There were no stars in the sky. As the sky lightened, clouds scattered the light. They mounted their horses, and rode toward where they thought the battle was. A few moments after dawn, large raindrops began to fall.

  Ryan pushed the horses hard, cantering through the mud for an hour before he paused to let them switch horses. They were both ravenous when they rode into camp after another hour’s hard riding.

  A guard stopped them at the edge of the camp.

  “Halt!” He held up a hand in a gesture that reminded Ryan of the Bourne. Do not cross this line. He thought to himself, and laughed a bit.

  The guard was confused by the laugh. “Identify yourselves!” he said, warily.

  Ryan put his hand on the crystal hilt at his side. “Squires Ryan and Kevin of the Crown Knights," he said, curtly. “We have traveled over hill and under mountain to reach this camp before the army is completely overwhelmed by the Triols. Where can we get food?” His voice was strong, commanding.

  The guard looked them over. “Why do you have four horses, squire?”

  “Our knights died, protecting us in the line of duty.” Ryan smiled sadly. “We were successful despite this, and bring … happy news for General Petrin.” He held his stomach. “But we have not eaten in near two days, guard, and must nourish ourselves before we speak with him.”

  The guard nodded, and pointed to a tent not far from them. “That is the tent where you can get food…if you want to call it that," he said, grinning ruefully. “I will alert General Petrin of your arrival. Squires Ryan and Kevin, you said? Who were your knights?”

  “Gregory, Petrin’s brother, and Armand, both of the Crown Knights," Ryan said over his shoulder, for he had already begun walking his horse towards the mess tent. Kevin was not far behind.

  Ryan noted that the army was not on the field, most of the soldiers had sought shelter under their tents. He found that he was a bit disappointed.

  I guess I had hoped to enter the fray right after eating. He thought to himself, and stared up at the sky. Maybe it will clear up, or perhaps the Triols will attack despite the rain.

  He and Kevin tied their horses to a wooden rail outside the mess tent, and went in to get some hot food.

  * * *

  General Petrin entered the mess tent a few minutes later. He found the two shoveling food into their mouths at the rickety table nearest the soup line. He grinned at their enthusiasm for the lackluster stew. He then frowned as he remembered that there were four that had left, and only these two survived. He strode over to their table and sat down.

  He wasted no time in preamble. “The guard said that you succeeded. Where are the swords?”

  Ryan swallowed his stew, pulled his sword out and set it on the table between them.

  “Sword, not swords. One was missing," he said flatly. “And the sword has claimed me. It did not … work, as a sword, for Armand.” He frowned. “It was his undoing. He could not defeat his last enemy because the sword failed him. But when I picked it up, I was … more successful than Armand.”

  Petrin lifted the sword, studying its lines, feeling its balance. Ryan’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

  Petrin stood up and swung the sword a couple of times. “It is a nice sword," he said, doubtfully. “But the legends speak of it being red.” He saw Ryan’s expression, and slowly put the sword down on the table.

  “Now,” the general said, “tell me what happened.”

  Kevin looked over at Ryan. Ryan glanced back, nodded, and spoke.

  He mostly told the truth. Kevin squirmed a bit in discomfort at Ryan’s new ending to their tale, but knew that Ryan couldn’t tell the truth about killing Armand.

  Ryan’s story ended with a fight with another giant, similar to the ones they had met on the western side of the mountain, but more intelligent. Ryan finished with him describing how he picked up the discarded sword only after Armand had died trying to protect them with the flawed blade. Of course, once the sword bonded to Ryan, it was an easy task to finish off the ‘giant.’

  Petrin nodded. “Well, from what you describe, you will be a real asset to the battlefield.” He stood. “Why don’t you finish eating? The several Singers that choose to serve our king say that the weather will clear by the end of the day. They also say that the Triols are planning a major attack tomorrow morning but will leave us alone today.” He smiled at them. “I will have one of the guards show you two knights to a tent that is proper to your new station—I hope you don’t mind, we have all junior knights two to a tent. I assure you, they are befitting your new rank.” Kevin grinned at Ryan, who was nodding to general Petrin in gratitude.

  “Thank you, general," Ryan said. “We will be happy to serve you.”

  “Good,” Petrin said, eyes narrowing. “The first thing you can do for me is to demonstrate the sword’s abilities. Shall we say, three hours after noon, in the central area in front of my tent?” He smiled, but did not wait for a reply. “I’m glad that will work for you. See you then”

  * * *

  The afternoon was clear, as promised. When Ryan and Kevin arrived at Petrin’s tent, there were two infantrymen spreading copious amounts of dry sawdust around the area. The general was supervising.

  “Hello, Ryan, Kevin!” Petrin called, waving them over. “I thought it wouldn’t be a fair showing of the sword if you and your opponent were slipping and sliding around in the mud. There is a river not too far from here, and a sawmill whose owner abandoned it not long before we arrived—so I had some men ride over and gather what sawdust there was.” He nodded. “I think it will make things better, don’t you?”

  Ryan nodded, looking around, trying to spot his opponent.

  “This battle will be to first blood, young Ryan.” The general laughed lightly. “No point in us losing one of our knights! We have too few as it is.” He gestured to a tall man in full plate armor that was riding towards them. “I’ve asked Crown Knight Jenkins to be your opponent. Hello, Jenkins!” He yelled. “Come over here and meet the young man I was telling you about!”

  Jenkins dismounted in front of them. He was very tall, but very thin, even wearing armor. He held his hand out to Ryan, who paused for a moment, then shook hands.

  General Petrin introduced them. “Jenkins, Ryan. Ryan, Jenkins.” He gestured at Ryan. “Ryan, why don’t you show him your sword?”

  Ryan understood that the question wasn’t really a request. He slid the sword out of its sheath, flipped it around, and handed the hilt to Jenkins. Jenkins stepped back and made several cuts back and forth with the weapon, then nodded. He turned the blade around, and slid his fingertips over the crystal pommel before handing it back to Ryan.

  “It is a well-made blade," he said. “The pommel is interesting, I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything that smooth.” He smiled. “It was so smooth that it feels soft, although the crystal does not yield.”

  “Interesting," Petrin said. “So the rules of this battle are as I told you late this morning, Jenkins: first blood.” He grinned. “Preferably only a little blood, if you can, gentlemen.

  He turned to Ryan. “I’d like you to trade swords for a few moments, Ryan.” Ryan’s mouth tightened, and the general held up a hand. “I know you believe the sword has ‘chosen you,’ whatever that means—but Jenkins has a decade’s more experience with the blade than you, he is the most experienced warrior in our forces.

  “If it is as you say, then the blade will not work properly for him, and you can have it back. If it is not the way that you say—” his tone darkened. “Well, there is a whole army here, and I do not appreciate it when someone in my army is focused more on his own glory than on the survival of his fellow soldiers.”

  Petrin held his hand out. Ryan grimaced, but he had no choice after words such as those. He placed the hilt of the sword in the general’s hand.

  Jenkins handed his sword over to Ryan, then took the sword from Petrin. He turned to strap on his shield,
and Ryan did the same. They came to en guard.

  There was no contest. Jenkins may have had more experience, but Ryan had learned from the best warrior in the army, and the sword Jenkins used could not even scratch Ryan’s shield. General Petrin stopped their fighting before two minutes had passed.

  They switched swords, and Ryan’s shoulders relaxed immediately. Although the crystal was no longer weeping water, he felt the rolling ocean of power underneath his hands, and smiled warmly. The warriors came to en guard.

  Ryan stood still, waiting for an attack. Jenkins paused, staring at the sword for a moment, then sprang into action. He swept his sword up into the air and brought it straight down, with all his strength, towards Ryan’s head. Ryan brought his sword up to counter, and reached into the sword with his mind, and touched the surface of that ocean of power. There was a loud ringing sound as the two swords met.

  Jenkins’ sword was shorn in two, the front half of the blade falling uselessly to the ground. The crystal pommel continued ringing like a bell, the hilt vibrating warmly in Ryan’s hand.

  Ryan turned to general Petrin, smiling broadly. “I don’t think we need to go to first blood, do we, general?” He asked.

  Petrin shook his head in wonder.

  * * *

  The next morning, just as dawn began to wake the sky, Ryan formed up ranks with the army. He rode with a small group of twenty knights in the center front of the battle line. Kevin was on his right, and General Petrin on his left. They both wore full armor, plates on top of chain mail, that had been pieced together from extras that remained after their previous owners had been lost in battle.

  Finally, I will see battle today. He thought, smiling confidently.

  Kevin wasn’t so confident. He kept shifting his gaze back and forth, first nervously looking to the hill that the Triols would soon crest, then looking at Ryan—even more nervously, if that were possible.

  There came a rhythmic metallic pounding from the other side of the hill. The Triol infantry marched up the hill, slapping their shields with their swords at each step. There were thousands of them, and they kept coming, streaming over the hill.

  Ryan grinned maniacally. Finally, he thought once again.

  Petrin waved above his head, and a trumpeter sounded the charge. The cavalry drew their swords and galloped toward the enemy.

  Ryan rode towards the largest Triol he could see, gripping the wire-wrapped hilt tightly in his hand. His breathing had slowed, like the calm before a storm. The crystal pommel started to weep as he reached his mind into the sword’s seemingly limitless power.

  The large Triol lifted his sword to defend himself, but neither the uplifted sword nor his armor slowed Ryan’s attack. He was cut in twain, his right arm falling to the earth, but Ryan did not pause to watch—had already sliced through his next victim. The pommel of his sword seemed to sweat more with each cut that he made.

  General Petrin reined in his horse, mouth falling open as he watched the slaughter. In mere minutes, the Triol front line had begun to fold, their morale destroyed, their forces decimated. Ryan lay about him, killing man after man.

  Several pikemen ran toward Ryan, injuring his horse before he could lop off the heads of their weapons. He leapt off of the dying animal and ran at them. They scattered, but he chased them down, one by one. The last one he hamstrung and left alive to watch the destruction.

  Something’s happening. He thought to himself.

  His sword had begun to visibly glow, and taken on the reddish tinge of the blood that had covered every inch of the blade. The crystal pulsed, slowly beating like a heart.

  As general Petrin watched in awe and slowly rising fear, Ryan continued to destroy the Triol army.

  They were actively running from him now, and so he reached more deeply into the sword’s power. He couldn’t help himself; it came so easily, so automatically.

  Something bad is happening.

  As he swung the sword into empty air, a blade of white light detached and shot forward, killing several of the fleeing Triol soldiers. He swiped several more bands of snowy light, each one more powerful than the last, as he ran towards the center of the Triol army. Kevin dutifully followed his friend’s destructive wake, riding with a dozen or so of the knights who took care of any Triols who were separated from the rest.

  The bulk of the Triol army was in disarray. The soldiers from the front lines that were still alive were fleeing pell-mell away from Ryan. Meanwhile, the Triol rear generals were calling for their men to attack. The men in the middle were uncertain of what to do. Most of them ran toward the battle.

  Ryan ran into the confused tangle of Triol bodies and began slicing again. Water was pouring off of the crystal, but, like the throne in the mountain, it was flowing upwards, over his hand. The steel shone blood red. Ryan paused for a moment, looking at the sword—he was certain without knowing that the steel itself had changed. This was not just simple blood covering the blade.

  Something very bad is happening. Mounting fear was keeping him from thinking clearly.

  He found that he could not stay still. He could feel his body changing. The speed with which he moved seemed to steep into his muscles. His very bones seemed to throb with power. He turned back to his terrifying job, and the Triols renewed their attempts to flee.

  As Ryan swung the sword, even if it bit Triol flesh, it released a glowing blade that rent bodies up to a dozen feet away. The blades of light shone red, now, and seemed to tear rather than cut. Ryan felt a sense of dread; he knew that something had gone terribly wrong.

  His eyes grew wide with fear. He stopped his feet for a moment, but could not control his arms. They seemed to be submerged in the sea of power, and he could not withdraw them.

  He managed to turn his torso far enough to see Kevin.

  “Kevin!” He screamed. “Kevin!”

  Kevin’s eyes bulged. He shook his head at Ryan, and pointed at the glowing sword.

  The red blades of light had grown larger. As he swung the sword, his body rocked with a concussion, force flowing through flesh. He looked down at his sword hand—the pommel, glowing brighter than ever, was weeping blood that flowed upwards over his hand. He swung the sword, involuntarily, and a blast wave of red light flattened a hundred people in front of him.

  “Kevin!! Get the army out of here!” He screamed, and turned to his uncontrollable sword.

  Kevin turned and fled, taking everyone with him. He raced back to the bulk of the army, but Petrin was already commanding the army to flee.

  “Run!” He yelled. “Quickly! Retreat!” He hit a footman with the flat of his blade. “Faster!” He looked back at the top of the hill in fear, watching the red explosions throw Triol footmen into the air. He saw Kevin coming, nodded, and gestured towards their camp.

  Kevin rode up next to him and tried to help organize the panicked retreat. Petrin put his hand on Kevin’s shoulder, who turned to look at the general.

  “I fear that your friend may bring demise to us all. See to it that as many live as can be spared.”

  Kevin nodded, shocked at Petrin’s calm, and turned back to their men.

  Back on the hillside, Ryan’s breath came in ragged gasps. In his mind, a storm blew across the sea of power. Its winds whipped the waves into a red-tinged froth. He stared down at his hands as they swung the sword; he saw violent waves of death emanate from the blade and destroy his enemies.

  The blade was glowing cherry-red now, as if it were in a forge, waiting to be struck by the smith’s hammer.

  Ryan’s body slowed, and he stood still. He turned his gaze left and right, searching, but could find no other living person. He stood alone on a field filled with the dead.

  He threw back his head, and cried like a newborn babe.

  This wasn’t supposed to be like this! He thought. Or perhaps he said it aloud, to the world.

  The sword throbbed with power. He looked down at it, and saw that the blood had reversed course. It was flowing back into the pommel, w
hich was growing darker and heavier by the moment. It seemed to call toward the bloody ground, but Ryan lifted it above his head and did not let it drop.

  Ryan’s eyes were wide as saucers. He tried to will the crystal white again. He tried to turn away from the sword, but could not bring himself to look at the destruction that he had wreaked. All he could do was stare in horror, as death itself seemed to flow into the sword.

  Why is this happening? He screamed in his mind. Is it because I showed no mercy to Armand? I’m sorry! I should not have hated him!

  “He was so bad to me!” He yelled aloud. “What was I supposed to do?”

  The pommel had grown so heavy that it dragged his arm down, towards the bloody ground. He struggled to keep it from the earth, dreading what would happen if it touched real blood.

  Is it because I wasn’t ready for this? Is it because I’ve become … He looked at the black pommel. It had swollen with the dark energy.

  “Have I become … evil?” he whispered aloud to himself.

  He lifted the sword, putting the pommel next to his eyes, and gazing into its inky blackness. He saw his face reflected in the crystal, twisted around the sphere, with the piles of dead beyond.

  He did not like what he saw.

  Ryan closed his eyes. His strength failed. He toppled to the ground, his arm fell. The black crystal sparked as it ground into the soil, cracked, and shivered into shards.

  There was a flash of black light, and Ryan knew no more.

  * * *

  The kingdom army had run almost to their camp. They had just reached the first tents when their world ended.

  There was a huge flash of black light that left the sky darkened. The ground rumbled, and the hill that had been the battlefield disappeared, collapsing dozens of yards into the earth. Most of the soldiers were caught; their bodies dissolved in the black explosion. Their tents and supplies flew through the air. A dozen miles away, the sawmill disintegrated into tinder. The mountains, which tried to hold fast, gripping the plains below, found themselves shifted—peaks moved, ridges shifted.